


Monarch Orange

by Hyliare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Mollstrade, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyliare/pseuds/Hyliare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock helps Molly plan her wedding. Written as an exercise in short stories, from a sort-of prompt on tumblr by Ame (@showmethemeatdagger).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monarch Orange

“Well, I like that one, the orange. That’s settled.”

“Monarch.”

“…Sorry?”

“It’s _monarch_. The shade.

“Uhm…Yes. All right.”

“It’s a bridesmaid’s dress, not a _pylon_.”

“Ah…That’s true.”

She smiled down at the pile of papers on the table in front of her—small rectangles made of stiff cardstock, various sizes and colours and dimensions, with various ribbons and embroideries and stamps.

He was still brusque. He would probably _always_ be brusque, even when he was white-haired and wearing his glasses on a chain, but now, she found it charming.

Now, she no longer had dreams of softening his edges, or teaching him manners, or hearing him speak tenderly to her over a candlelit dinner.

She knew his edges would always be sharp, his manners always considered optional, and his dinners, though sometimes candlelit, always filled with tender looks instead of words.

And she knew those tender looks would always be directed at John Watson.

And after an embarrassing number of years, Molly was _fine_ with that.

After all, Sherlock Holmes was, as her fiancé had put it the first time she’d met him, “a bit of a dick.” It had been exactly what she’d needed to hear that night.

“Any progress on the invitations? You’ll want a cardstock of at least 220gsm, if you’re going with a flat print. I suggest _ecru_. It should fit the overall aesthetic…Are you actually listening?”

“Of course! I just…don’t have anything to add. You’re the expert.”

“Obviously.”

Molly’s chest tightened, but she fought the urge to laugh. Last time she’d let out a giggle, Sherlock had swept out of the flat claiming he wouldn’t offer any more assistance until she was “ready to take things seriously.”

It wasn’t her fault he’d mistaken a heap of lorem ipsum for the _actual_ text she wanted on the wedding web site, and proceeded to attempt a mental translation. The look on his _face_.

“You are a medical professional,” he’d said, “It was hardly a stretch to assume you spoke Latin.”

John had been forced to lock him out of 221B three days later. Sherlock had shown up at her door with pursed lips and a gourmet cupcake from some posh bakery. He’d grated out an apology, shoved the cupcake into her chest, and marched right back to the sofa.

Molly had fetched her wedding box, and there they were.

“I like the ones with ribbons, and the ones that are die-cut.”

“Should be fairly simple to combine the two. Have you decided what you’d like them to read?”

“No middle names. I know that. And…I don’t know. _Cordially invited_ just seems so…ordinary.”

“Are you not planning on having an ordinary wedding?”

“Well.”

“It’s not as though there’s anything wrong with it. After all, the two of youare both rather—”

“I don’t want it to say ‘cordially.’” It was Molly’s turn to purse her lips, fixing Sherlock with the stare she’d learned from John. The warning stare. “We’ll come back to what they _say_. For now, I’ve got no clue about seating.”

“I’ve come up with a chart of suggestions, based on the personalities of the invitees.”

“You barely know any of them.”

“Easy to glean from social media. Child’s play.”

“What, you friended them all? They friended _you_ back?”

“Of course not. I didn’t have to. You and your fiancé _share_ a password. It’s not romantic, Molly, it’s idiotic, especially considering your professions. Now, about your Aunt Imogene…”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“What?”

Molly found she didn’t have anything to say, actually. There was no outrage, or even a feeling of invaded privacy. And, at first glance, the seating chart _did_ look promising. Was this how John felt all the time? She scanned the listed seats a bit closer and pulled the cupcake box over from the far side of the table. “…Never mind. What about Aunt Genie?”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

“ _Man_ of Honour…And I thought you wanted a traditional wedding.”

“It’s traditional enough. And…I couldn’t ask anyone else.”

“I suppose working in the morgue has its draw backs. Don’t you knit, or some over mind-numbing thing like that? Should have joined a hobbyist’s group. Found some more friends.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Molly smiled at him, watching Sherlock straighten his tie in the mirror. It was a shade of green—spring, or sprig, or sprint, something like that, which paired quite nicely with the oran— _monarch_ —bridesmaids.

Tentatively, with the very corner of his mouth, Sherlock smiled back.

His chest rose and fell as he took a measured breath, stepping away from the mirror to let Molly take his place.

“I realize it’s expected I tell you that you look beautiful. Lovely. Resplendent.”

Molly laughed. She didn’t need to hold it in—it was her wedding day. He was duty-bound not to run off. “It is expected, yes.”

“…You do.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

She turned to him, then back to the image of herself. White lace, a faint floral pattern, a short veil. Pink lipstick, to make her mouth look bigger. She was most pleased with the bouquet. It was nice, having a Man of Honour familiar with Victorian floriography.

“…Are you ready? Everyone’s waiting.”

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

 

\-----o0o0o-----

 

The church was small, but not _quaint_. Molly had heard that word applied to _far_ too many things in her life to allow it in reference to her venue. It was small and elegant. Strong in its delicacy. It was perfect. And her fiancé was waiting inside.

“Ah…Wow. You look…Wow, Molly.”

She ducked her head, grinning as Sherlock left her side and stood next to the Best Man instead. “Thanks, John. Everything all right?”

“Perfect. Greg’s over the moon.”

“…Perfect.”

“See you on the other side, then, hm?”

Molly nodded. Her small nephews, conscripted as ring bearer and flower boy, were already bouncing on their toes.

As her father offered his arm to her, she watched John turn and offer his arm to Sherlock, and she couldn’t help but wonder. Planning a wedding was nightmarish—she hoped for at least a _few_ months of downtime before she was helping plan another one.

 


End file.
